


In Our Bedroom After the War

by GoodyearTheShippyCat



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Aftermath, Aliens, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Awkward Boners, Awkwardness, Background Poly, Card Games, Colterons, Comfort, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Friendships, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gambling, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hints of Deimos/Phobos, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Male Friendship, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Military Science Fiction, Minor Character Death, Morning Wood, Multi, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, Past Phobos/Porthos, Post-War, Sexual Confusion, Sharing a Bed, Tears, Unresolved, War, mother - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25983538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodyearTheShippyCat/pseuds/GoodyearTheShippyCat
Summary: Returning from the battle at the Colteron shipyard, the crew of the Sleipnir learns that they weren’t as successful as previously believed. While everyone aboard grapples with what the future holds for humanity, Deimos and Phobos are also contending with what that means for them as a team.
Relationships: Deimos & Phobos (Starfighter), Deimos/Encke/Keeler (Starfighter), Encke/Keeler (Starfighter)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: Starfighter Summer Challenge





	In Our Bedroom After the War

**Author's Note:**

> Although it’s an alternate ending fic, this was a WIP I began literally years ago at this point. It was one of my oldest unfinished pieces, which in honour of the actual completion of the comic, I decided to finish up for the Starfighter Summer Challenge’s week-long secondary theme of “The End”. 
> 
> Warning for minor character death prior to the start of the fic. No graphic descriptions.
> 
> And yes, the title does come from a song. I don’t know if this really counts as song fic, though, as I decided on the title after it was already written (having gone through many failed options). 10 points to the fandom faction of your choice if you know it. It’s from a formative album from my youth that I return to often.

Earth was gone. Destroyed. Blown to a million little pieces and out of existence by the Colterons. They had lost the war without even knowing it.

Deimos turned the nearly unthinkable news over and over in his head as he walked aimlessly through the corridors of the _Sleipnir_ , passing more than a few devastated souls. Another fighter might have scoffed at the pale, perfectly symmetrical faces twisted in grief above the crisp collars of white uniforms. He just slipped past, silent and unnoticed, as usual.

 _They should have expected something like that communication,_ he mused, _I thought navigators were supposed to be smart._

This particular revelation was just another puzzle piece falling into place, revealing a little more of the situation that humanity found itself in.

The first had come only a few days after their mission at the Colteron shipyard had concluded and the mutiny had altered the command structure of the ship. He’d been passing the time in an empty communications room, reading over some internal bulletins, when a transmission had come in. It wasn’t even encrypted; it had been sent on an open subspace channel that the Alliance used for communication with any and all non-Alliance spacecraft. Out in ‘Teron space, that usually just meant threatening missives from the enemy, and this was no different. It did, however, read more clearly than the click-filled mindless hate they’d heard from lowly fighters on previous encounters. Much more polished, and that much more threatening for it. It read like a declaration from whatever passed for command in the Colteron military:

**FOR YOUR HUBRIS IN CLAIMING HOLY GROUND YOU WILL SUFFER AS WE HAVE. YOUR CHOICES ARE TO DESPAIR AND DIE OR TO BECOME A STAR-FARING RACE, TRAVELING EVER ONWARD, UNABLE TO RETURN TO A HOME THAT NO LONGER EXISTS.**

If he’d been any less controlled, Deimos might have dropped the balisong he’d been flipping around in his right hand when he read the transmission. He had immediately gone to find the acting Commanders, though he’d suspected that if anyone on the ship were still doing their job, he wouldn’t be the first one to bring it to their attention. But there was nothing to lose, and since the mutiny Keeler had been awfully friendly to him. He’d seen no reason _not_ to ingratiate himself to his best chance of getting out of any charges. Treason forged strong—if normally unlikely—alliances.

Add fucking to that and you had a potent combination, though perhaps a slightly more volatile one.

Deimos still wasn’t sure whether he’d made the right decision after having interrupted the Lead Fighter and Navigator in a rather intimate moment. Keeler had immediately gotten over his embarrassment and dragged him around the ship along with Encke. Deimos hadn’t been certain why. It wasn’t like he had any more idea what the ‘Terons were on about than anyone else, but had gone along with it. And then gone along with the long-haired, delicate navigator’s request to resume where they’d left off.

The next morning the three of them had been rudely awakened by a frantic call to the acting Commanders’ room. A long-range transmission from the Alliance had made it out to them, simply stating that the _Sleipnir_ was to return to base immediately, as the Colteron threat was not yet neutralized.

No mention of the mutiny, which as per protocol had been relayed in a subspace communication along with the news of their successful mission shortly after Cook and Bering had been confined to the brig. Just a too-simple order, with no additional details. After pressing the button on the panel to end the intercom call with the bridge crew, Keeler had collapsed back onto the mattresses between Encke and him. Deimos could distinctly remember the way the other man’s breathing had sounded shallow and laboured, his smooth, perfect skin suddenly clammy. Worry had etched lines in his pale face, deep shadows below his eyes even more apparent than usual. 

That had been days ago, but nothing else had come over the Alliance frequencies since. _At least, not until earlier today._

Having reached his own door, Deimos entered to pretty much the exact same scene as every other day this week. Well, the ones he had returned to the shared room, at any rate. Quite a few _had_ been spent in the room of a different team.

His navigator sobbed loudly from where he was curled up in the bottom bunk; a rumpled white mound, shaking with each violent, grief-stricken exhalation. It had been that way since the _Pharaon_ was destroyed in the shipyard raid, killing Porthos and his fighter. Deimos had never really interacted with Athos much, but the silence left in his absence was noticeable on the fighter decks.

Phobos’ miserable wails seemed only to increase in volume now that he had an audience.

Even the chatty colonist would have had his work cut out for him trying to be heard in the designated mourning zone that was Team Equinox’s room. Deimos went over to the drawers, grabbing what he’d come back for and attempting to slip out again, hoping to be ignored as usual.

“Yuh- you’re ruh- really j- just going to luh- leave me here a- alone?”

Deimos froze at the sound of a wavering voice, less petulant-sounding when trying to speak around barely contained sobs. Tension suffused his shoulder muscles and seemingly the air in the room as well. He turned to the shadowed form on the bed. Phobos had rolled over and propped himself up a bit, leaning heavily on one hand while smearing at his puffy, red face with the other.

Giving a noncommittal shrug he made to leave, but stopped again when Phobos continued.

“Are you ruh- really that much of an a- asshole, Deimos?” whined his navigator, but the complaint had less vitriol than usual, and an undertone of hurt. “I get that you didn’t care when Porthos—” his voice cracked and it looked like he was going to start crying again. He fought through with a shaky breath. “Buh- but after hearing all that? After the _entire fucking Earth was destroyed_ , you can’t even pretend to give a shit?”

Deimos just stared at him, growing more uncomfortable by the second. Unsure what response was expected of him. In all the time they’d been paired together, Phobos had never once looked to him for anything beyond silent obedience. A dog being asked to heel, or sit.

“Fine! Fuck you, Deimos!” Phobos yelled half-heartedly then threw himself back down onto the mattress with a heavy thud, staring blankly at the underside of the bunk above him. Almost like an afterthought, he added quietly, “Just my luck.”

Hesitating for a moment, Deimos continued to slink towards the door. As he reached for the panel, he heard the man behind him speak again.

“I can’t believe you might be the only thing I have left.”

_I can’t believe you never shut up._

Phobos gave a single harsh, humourless laugh, as if he’d somehow heard his fighter’s petty thought. “A week ago that would have been the most horrifying thing I could even imagine. This is SO unfair.”

Deimos left without looking back, the door sliding closed behind him. Making his way down to the fighter levels, he continued mulling over the events of the day.

The _Sleipnir_ had gotten the news as soon as they were back in range of the furthest real-time communication arrays again. Well, that was a slight exaggeration—there was quite a delay from this far out, but transmissions could be sent back and forth in something more like a conversation. Even video could be used, though it was only practical for things like announcements due to the long interval between sending and receiving data in that quantity. Which was exactly what had happened. Central Command’s initial message stated that the crew of the ship should finish their current tasks and prepare for an emergency briefing in an hour and a half.

After the destruction of the shipyard, they’d all been thinking they were going back for a heroic welcome, having accomplished their mission. _Tch, so naïve_ , Deimos thought in retrospect. Even if there hadn’t been the complications posed by a mutiny, they should never have assumed they’d just dealt a final blow against the ‘Terons.

General Copernicus’ devastated face up on the large screen had said everything they needed to know before he even began speaking. It turned out that the shipyard they’d blown up in the Baten Kaitos system was only one of many. Mother had misread the signals from the Colteron artifact. The Alliance only realized their mistake when the subspace transmission from the _Sleipnir_ had come through, announcing the success of the mission.

The artifact was singing even stronger, getting almost restless. Mother was becoming overwhelmed by its power.

The logical conclusion was that there had to be other targets out there, but the Alliance didn’t have time to mobilize a force and find out where they could be. They didn’t have enough warning to gather the necessary intelligence the way they had with Baten Kaitos.

It was only when legions of enemy ships appeared on the scanners that they understood there must have been multiple shipyards. Identical ones being constructed across the galaxy. A massive fleet armed with more antimatter artillery than could even be imagined. It hadn’t taken long for the Colteron forces to overwhelm the defensive blockade surrounding the inner solar system.

Some of Earth’s denizens had managed to evacuate, though most ships were shot down by the Colterons. The vast majority of the planet’s population died. Humanity’s numbers had been decimated in less than twenty-four hours.

The enemy fleet had created a swarming formation encircling the Earth, training all their weapons on it. The Colterons took heavy casualties, but more ships just slipped in to fill the breaks in the pattern, seeming to multiply even as they were destroyed. In a synchronized charge, they unleashed the full might of their antimatter weapons, utterly obliterating the planet.

That transmission the _Sleipnir_ had received—the one Deimos had brought to the acting Commanders’ attention—was the ‘Terons final message to the survivors. To all that remained of the human race. It had been broadcast all over the sector and throughout Colteron space, anywhere Alliance ships might have been traveling.

Then they up and left as quickly as they’d come, apparently finished with the war. Leaving Mars, mostly untouched, to humanity.

Watching Phobos from the corner of his eye throughout the briefing had been fascinating. His navigator’s face had alternated wildly between anger, shock, disbelief, horror, and confusion. More emotions than Deimos had seen from him before, all laid over a backdrop of grief and without a trace of his usual smugness.

 _All it took to knock him down a peg was the destruction of his home planet,_ thought Deimos, briefly amused until the memory of Phobos’ tear-streaked face pushed itself to the front of his mind.

The _Sleipnir_ was continuing on its course and had been ordered to dock at the Starbase, where what was left of Earth’s leaders and Alliance brass had assembled. Presumably trying to figure out what to do next. Before dismissing the assembled soldiers, Keeler and Encke had announced that until their arrival back at base things were to continue as usual on the ship. Same state of alert; just because it sounded like the Colterons had declared victory didn’t mean they were done fighting. Considering the fact that they had only recently left Colteron space and still had a long way to go, it made sense.

 _Smart to avoid any more changes to routine_ , he thought as he walked into the nearly empty room where fighters often loitered when off duty, _Don’t want to invite a second mutiny._

The spare cargo bay was emptier than usual; just a few small groups standing near the bulkheads as they smoked or sitting around in their tank tops, uniform jackets tossed aside. He spotted a reliable source for contraband—task name Bacchus—playing a game of cards.

_Perfect._

Walking over and giving a small nod to the broad, blandly handsome man, Deimos joined their circle and was dealt in on the next hand.

“Hey, why aren’t you with your navi?” asked Bacchus as he handed out the last of the cards for the round. “He’s still alive, right?”

Deimos shrugged and tapped to indicate that he would call the latest raise. He won the round easily and watched the next set of cards dealt out, one by one.

“Yeah, what are you doing down here right now?” asked one of the other players, apparently not interested in dropping the line of inquiry, or hoping to distract him. “Shouldn’t you be, y’know, getting him drunk or something?”

“If mine were still around, I know I’d be stuck in our room right now,” added another with a scar along his jawline, “and I fucking hated that guy. Smarmy asshole. But he _did_ get us both back aboard the ship before kicking the bucket, at least.”

“Mine’s still in med bay,” Bacchus said gruffly, “Poor bastard doesn’t even know what’s happened yet. Not lookin’ forward to having to be the one to tell him.”

“Fuck man, that sucks.”

“I know! How do you break that to someone? ‘Sorry but your planet got exploded, just thought you should know.’ Tch!”

 _So that’s why it’s so empty down here_.

It dawned on Deimos as they continued playing that pretty much everyone else must be busy comforting their flight partners, whether they were lovers, friends, or just colleagues who mostly didn’t hate each other. If a fighter still had a navigator, chances were good that their family had been on Earth.

_Had been… and most probably didn’t get off-world in time. Or never made it to the station or Mars._

“Well if you don’t want him, I’d be happy to go comfort your navigator,” a fighter who he only knew by sight, not task name, piped up in a sleazy voice, “He’s a pretty little bitch, isn’t he?” Deimos aimed a stare so intense at him that he almost faltered, but managed to keep up the macho posturing. “So what’s your room number, huh? Come on, don’t be selfish!”

In a flash, his knife was out from his sleeve, open, and pressed close to the neck of the burly fighter.

“Okay, okay, calm the fuck down, man. Didn’t realize you’d claimed him, the way he fawned over that other navigator. The one built like a fighter? Or did you three have an arrangement?” He winked, voice too many shades of salacious for Deimos’ liking.

He considered slitting the man’s throat then and there, but figured the risk of ending up in the brig was too great, especially with how on edge everyone was already. Keeler might be fine with a bit of treason, but probably wouldn’t look kindly on murder. Besides, he’d got what he came for. He stepped back, still holding the knife out in a threatening manner as he threw his cards down on the table and shoved his winnings into his pockets before backing away. Deimos waited until they’d begun playing again to turn his back as he slipped into the hallway.

Once certain he wasn’t being followed, he fished the half-empty bottle he’d won from his pocket and took a swig. The contraband burned on its way down. A good burn, and he hadn’t even had to suck anyone off to get it. He’d been lucky tonight, at least in that respect. Not that Bacchus was ever a bad choice for that, when he was interested. He was respectful and it tended to be over pretty quickly. A bottle of his hastily-distilled swill was always worth a mouthful of… well, what could be described the same way.

Meandering through the halls sipping from his prize, Deimos eventually ended up outside his room again. He hesitated there for a moment, listening. No sounds met his ears.

_Maybe Phobos finally cried himself to sleep._

The door slid open quietly when he entered his code on the panel. Stepping inside, it wasn’t fully dark. Phobos had left a small reading light on, illuminating the floor beside his bunk and casting a dim glow throughout the small space.

“You’ve got some nerve coming back. I hope you had fun slutting it up with the other fighters. I can smell the smoke on you from here.”

The voice carried from the motionless lump on the bed, which remained facing the wall. Deimos could only see Phobos’ back, now clad in just a white undershirt, the matching uniform jacket abandoned on the floor. He took off his boots and his own jacket, which he tossed onto the edge of the top bunk. He leaned over and tapped his navigator on the shoulder once, then a second time when he got no response.

“What? What do you want?” Phobos asked in a huff as he uncurled and whipped his head around to glare.

Deimos held out the bottle.

Phobos didn’t need any encouragement, swiping it and taking a big chug. Not even coughing or sputtering afterward, though he did still complain. “Ugh, that’s foul. Is it going to blind me?”

Deimos just shrugged, watching as the navigator took another sip; apparently finding it palatable enough to continue drinking. He knew Phobos preferred a nicer grade of contraband when he could find it. Also knew he had no qualms over settling for whatever was available, based on the number of times Deimos had found a bottle he’d stashed to share with Cain missing. Once in a while, Phobos had even been thoughtful enough to replace whatever he’d “borrowed”.

Right now he didn’t have much other choice, anyway. He’d already drank his way through every last partial bottle in their tiny room over the past week.

Deimos was almost a little surprised when Phobos handed back the now significantly emptier bottle so he could take a sip, too. _Learning to share, too. Will the miracles never cease?_ He passed it back to Phobos again, who took it but didn’t bring it to his mouth right away, instead frowning up at Deimos.

“Sit down, you weirdo. Looming over the person you’re drinking with is rude!”

Phobos had rearranged himself to sit with his legs off the side of the bunk, feet on the floor, and gestured to the space beside him on the mattress impatiently. Deimos obeyed, leaving a good foot of space between them, staring at the navigator warily. Phobos was never nice; at least, not to him, or many other people for that matter. But he passed the bottle back again after taking a more normal-sized drink this time. They sat in silence, sharing the spoils of Deimos’ brief poker victory. As they neared the end of the bottle, Deimos watched his navigator from the corner of his eye. Phobos’ face was still puffy and his eyes were red-rimmed, but he was significantly calmer than before. He decided to risk speaking.

“Sorry,” he rasped into the silence that surrounded them.

Almost as if a spell had been broken, Phobos turned his head, gaze sharp and calculating. He let out a loud sigh, though it didn’t carry the usual exaggerated tone of melodrama.

“Shouldn’t have said what I did earlier,” he mumbled, looking down at the bottle in his hands, which he used to gesture at Deimos, “Thanks.”

Deimos just shook his head, confused and uncomfortable hearing his normally catty navigator speak with something approaching sincerity. Even if he did follow it up with another big swig of contraband before passing the bottle over. Draining the last bit, Deimos made to stand, certain that this rare moment of comradery had come to an end now that the alcohol was gone. He started at the feeling of slender, delicate fingers on his forearm.

“Stay? Plea- se.” croaked Phobos, sounding so much more scared and vulnerable than Deimos had ever heard him, his voice breaking a little on the final word.

He hesitated a moment, uncertain if it was a good idea. Phobos’ hand trembled against his arm, and Deimos gave in, sinking back to the mattress. He pulled his legs up to clamber closer to the wall and lay down on his side. Phobos turned to face him and followed suit. Deimos extended his arms slightly, allowing his navigator to shuffle closer and be wrapped up in them. For a moment, Deimos worried the other man might start crying again—his breathing a bit erratic—but he calmed quickly, some of the tension leaving his body.

They lay like that in silence for a long while.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but woke up in the same position the next morning. He tried to get up without waking Phobos, but failed.

“Ughhhh, is it morning already? God, my head hurts.”

Deimos fetched a glass of water and some painkillers and brought them to his navigator, who was now lying on his back with the pillow they’d shared over his face. He tapped Phobos on the shoulder, causing him to peak out from under the corner of the lumpy white rectangle. The other man sat up partway and took the offering, downing them both in one go.

“Thanks,” he mumbled in much the same way as he had the previous night, then turned over and replaced the pillow.

Deimos dressed and left, Phobos still lying there as the door slid shut behind him. He wandered the corridors aimlessly; nothing really to do, nothing scheduled while the whole ship grieved.

That night when he returned Phobos was in the lower bunk still, though not yet asleep. Deimos wondered if he’d even left the room that day. He hadn’t seen him in the mess hall at any of the normal mealtime hours.

Illuminated only by the light of his tablet, Phobos’ pale, tired face appeared almost sickly. The look he fixed on Deimos a silent plea. Deimos didn’t have any alcohol to offer, though. Nobody was betting with it now that contraband was at a premium following the briefing yesterday. It was even more in-demand than before, and it had already been the most popular form of currency on the ship, closely followed by cigarettes.

He took off his boots, leaving them by the door. Tossing his jacket onto his own bunk gave him a sense of déjà vu as he looked at his navigator again. Phobos shifted to one side, making space for Deimos next to him. An invitation.

They didn’t talk. Just curled up together like the previous night and fell asleep.

It became a new routine. Deimos would wake first and head out, though there wasn’t much scheduled during the day with the war supposedly over. The fighters and navigators did get back to some of their regular duties, though, with PT resuming and separate training sessions being held again. An attempt at normalcy, likely to keep things from devolving into utter chaos on the ship. A few teams even continued to use the VR simulation rigs together, but with a number dead after the battle at the shipyard and so many more mourning, the Sleipnir felt too empty, too still. If someone didn’t show up for training, it was conveniently overlooked; neither Encke or Keeler apparently interested in writing up any of their men for dereliction of duty.

Deimos had listened to the two of them discussing it one night while he lay between them, pretending to doze following a repeat of their tryst from that fateful day the Colteron transmission had come in. He had been surprised that they’d continually sought his company and wondered why. If they’d considered it a bad omen or something, he wouldn’t have blamed them, given what they’d learned since. Eventually he feigned waking up and slipped out of their room, ignoring Keeler’s half-hearted protests.

Whether he’d spent part of his evening with the acting Commanders or not, he would make a point of returning late each night. Without fail, Phobos would be reading on his tablet in the darkness of their shared room, shutting it off when Deimos climbed in next to him.

Each morning, they would wake in a different configuration; cuddled together the way they had fallen asleep, back to back, or spooning with Deimos’ arm around Phobos’ chest or Phobos’ leg thrown over Deimos’ hips. Most of the time his navigator had also managed to commandeer more than his share of the blankets. This continued even after he’d become fed up and dragged the second one down from his own bunk. That was after a few days in a row of waking up without any sheets over him, chilled except where their bodies touched. But to no avail—Phobos inevitably had most of the sheets in a pile on top of himself by morning.

Sometimes Phobos woke up when Deimos extricated himself from the tiny bed, and others he remained soundly sleeping. It was... nice. Just the fact that Phobos was quiet instead of being an insufferable, stuck-up jerk made him much more content to spend time with his navigator.

 _Almost worth the Earth getting blown up,_ he thought, then felt a little bad for thinking it.

One morning he awoke in a haze, still half asleep but fully hard from a series of intensely sexual dreams, the memories of which were already fading as consciousness seeped back into his brain. He tried to move then realized he was being spooned; Phobos’ arm wrapped beneath his own and around his chest, holding him in place. His back was plastered to the other man’s front from his shoulders down to the backs of his knees. His ass firmly pressed into Phobos’ lap—against his navigator’s rock hard erection, which was nestled comfortably in the cleft between his ass cheeks. Hot breath tickled his ear from behind as Phobos nuzzled into his hair with a sleepy sigh.

Deimos froze, almost able to hear the rapid-fire beat of his heart as he waited, trying not to wake the other man. Phobos’ breathing evened out, slow with sleep, and his hold loosened. He counted to ten, and when Phobos hadn’t moved again he very slowly, very carefully slid out of the bed—which was made easier by most of the covers already being off of him. He gave silent thanks to sleep-Phobos for his greediness and practically fled to the small en suite, daring to take a deep breath only once he’d locked the door behind him. He took another, but it didn’t help the confusing arousal still swimming in his head.

He was still painfully hard and it didn’t look to be subsiding. Deimos turned on the shower, slipping out of his undershirt and briefs as he waited for the water to hit the right temperature. He shivered as his cock swung free into the still-cool air, the steam from the shower not yet filling the room enough to warm it. Stepping under the spray, he placed both hands against the wall of the stall, letting the water run down through his hair and over his back. He couldn’t ignore the demanding stiffness between his legs any longer and took himself in hand, hissing with pleasure.

Trying not to think about the warm body of his navigator back in the bunk, or anyone else, he began moving his wrist back and forth. Just trying to focus on the sensation, blocking out thoughts and memories. He gripped his cock tightly and got himself off with fast, punishing strokes. He let out a silent cry as orgasm ripped through him, face tipped up into the spray as he came.

Just as rational thought was returning to his brain, he heard pounding on the door.

“Deimos! I swear, if you use up all the hot water, there _will_ be consequences!”

He sighed, quickly scrubbed himself clean, and got out. He toweled down just enough to avoid leaving puddles, which Phobos would be even more annoyed by. Wrapping the towel around his hips and gathering the clothes he’d slept in from the ground, Deimos opened the door.

“Finally! I’m not going to die of old age before you see fit to leave the shower for once!” Phobos strode past him, not even bothering to try and conceal the way his morning wood tented the front of the boxers he’d worn to sleep. Either he was completely shameless or really just didn’t give a fuck what Deimos saw any longer.

The fighter focused on dressing as quickly as possible—definitely not thinking about Phobos on the other side of the door or whether he was performing similar activities—then left the room with even more haste than usual.

Though he felt awkward about what had transpired unbeknownst to his navigator, Deimos didn’t let it break their new routine. After an uneventful couple of nights, he finally relaxed and tried to forget the strange occurrence. It faded in his consciousness almost like it had been a dream, too. Though like a dream, he did find aspects of it resurfaced in his thoughts now and again, making him briefly question its significance.

Apart from that, the remainder of the journey back to the Starbase passed without incident. When they finally got to the station, it was a sombre homecoming. Disembarking into the docking bay, Deimos watched as a few lucky souls were greeted by their loved ones.

Encke was immediately enveloped in the strong arms of a woman in a command uniform, not much shorter than the Lead Fighter himself. Both of them were crying, though with relief or sadness he couldn’t tell.

Not far off, Keeler was being yelled at by a distinguished-looking older man.

“Where’s my son! What do you mean, ‘who’? Don’t you know who _I am?_ ”

Deimos couldn’t hear Keeler’s response, but his usual quiet demeanor didn’t seem to be helping with the older man. Neither did his wife—who looked strangely similar to Keeler, or would have if her hair were loose, perhaps—tugging at his sleeve and telling him to hush. _Fucking mods, why do they all want to look the same?_

“Don’t be impertinent, young man! That’s Senator Carlisle, to you. I looked up his records already; task name ‘Abel’. Why isn’t he with you?”

Keeler’s face was apologetic as he gave what was likely a very diplomatic answer, though Deimos still couldn’t hear over the milling of the crowd as more families—or what was left of them—reunited.

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’? How do you lose an entire fucking spaceship? I know the Alliance can be irresponsible, but this really reaches new heights of incompetence.” 

He considered going over to save Keeler, pretending to deliver an urgent message or something. Then saw Encke heading over, eyes a bit puffy but dry once more, and decided against it. The two of them wouldn’t want him around for much longer, anyway. They had more than enough to deal with now, and after everything was over they’d probably just want to go find somewhere on Mars to settle down together.

Deimos slipped into a denser part of the crowd before he got caught watching the display. He jumped at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder.

“Woooowwww, that’s quite the drama, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to be in Keeler’s shoes right now.”

He relaxed as Phobos fell into step beside him. 

“What a hassle. It’s not like we even needed stupid Abel and that Colteron tech to destroy the shipyard, anyway,” Phobos ran his mouth, and Deimos detected more than a touch of nervousness behind the façade of his navigator’s apparent disdain, “ _Why_ the Commanders ever thought he was some special, secret weapon that would guarantee we won is beyond me. Stupid Cook, blinded by his boner.”

Deimos didn’t bother even acknowledging the rant. It wasn’t necessary. Phobos didn’t care about his opinion and this wasn’t about seeking confirmation of his own.

“The rest of the crew is just as good as Abel or his rabid dog ever were! Sure we took some casualties, but not that many more than a typical skirmish with Colteron forces. Hardly the suicide mission everyone told us to expect! You and I didn’t even get hit once, thanks to _my_ expert piloting.”

As they moved out of one throng of people, Deimos spotted Ethos. The navigator was running full tilt over to a woman at the other end of the docking bay, who was screaming with joy and relief, tears already pouring from her eyes. Another woman of a similar age had her arm around the sobbing one, using her free hand to wave at Ethos, then to pull them both tight together in a three-way hug when he practically leapt into their embraces.

“Hell, even Ethos survived!” said Phobos as he noticed where Deimos’ attention had been drawn. “If there was ever anyone who looked like they were _absolutely_ going to die tragically young, it’d be him.”

Deimos tuned out his navigator’s continued diatribe, which had circled back to Abel and whatever else stood out as most stupid about him at that moment.

He was surprised by how happy he felt to see that particular reunited family, head turned to watch as Ethos placed kisses on both of the older women’s cheeks, also crying now. Then again, Ethos had been one of the only navigators who didn’t treat him like dirt under their boot. Or even acknowledged his existence. Well, except Keeler, but he wasn’t sure how much of that was Encke’s influence and how much just a situational fluke. Regardless, he was glad that the friendly, tousle-haired navigator still had his loved ones.

Others were not so lucky.

The closest lab had been set up for arriving soldiers to search databases for the status of their families. For most, to confirm their worst fears. The devastation in the room was palpable even upon approaching it. The corridor outside was filled with white-uniformed figures in various states of breaking down. Some walking away quickly, stiff and teeth gritted as their fighters trailed after them helplessly. Some huddled against the walls, arms wrapped around knees drawn tight to their chests and faces hidden. Some holding each other as they cried, or being held by their dark-uniformed partners.

Deimos watched as some of the navigators he recognized from his days as Cain’s spy collapsed against their fighters or onto the floor, grief-stricken. He consciously returned his attention to Phobos, who had gotten in line for access to a terminal. An unexpected flicker of concern bloomed in his chest.

He tried to ignore the feeling of futility that outweighed any attempt to coax some hope to life there, too.

The navigator before Phobos in line nearly barreled into them as he turned and practically ran from the screen, as if he could escape what it had told him. Deimos watched Phobos take a deep breath and approach the control panel. He seemed to struggle to unfurl hands clenched in fists at his sides.

His navigator was uncharacteristically silent again, eyes shining bright with unshed tears as he closed the database entries the search had turned up, all marked ‘UNREPORTED – ASSUMED DECEASED’.

Deimos wasn’t sure he liked Phobos being silent any more. The novelty had worn off, and he was shocked by how affecting it was to witness the hurt on his face. Still, the other man kept his composure better than most, though he walked past Deimos without even seeming to see him.

Following him out was surprisingly challenging. Phobos was striding briskly now, and with his longer legs Deimos couldn’t quite keep up without breaking into a jog, which felt awkward. When they reached a small, pretty much abandoned corridor of supply rooms and cargo bays, Phobos finally snapped.

“Why are you following me? Go away! Just leave me alone!” he said, turning to yell at Deimos. “You never cared before! What are you doing here now?” They stared at each other for a long moment. Phobos was crying properly now, but it was also obvious that he was trying to keep a handle on it and stay angry at him instead of breaking down completely. Moving over to him slowly, as if attempting not to spook a frightened animal, Deimos reached out.

That was all it took. Phobos threw his arms around Deimos’ shoulders and buried his face into the crook of his neck, sobs wracking his skinny body.

They stood there for what seemed an eternity. Deimos saw one or two people turn the corner at either end of the hall and just as quickly duck back out. He just stayed in place, legs braced to support his navigator’s weight, rubbing slow circles on his back. Eventually the sobs subsided to little wet hiccoughs, then sniffles.

Once Phobos had calmed down, he pulled away from Deimos and scrubbed at his face with his palms. The look directed at him held unspoken thanks.

Snuffling once more, his navigator asked: “Aren’t you going to look anyone up?”

Deimos simply shook his head.

“Really? Nobody? Just because Mars didn’t _blow up_ doesn’t mean that everyone there was safe!” he continued, sounding almost indignant. “You don’t have any family members who were also in the Alliance? You’re really not going to look _anyone_ up to see if they’re okay?”

“Nobody to look up,” Deimos stated simply, voice sounding loud in the empty hall despite its scratchiness.

“Oh.”

Figuring that was it, Deimos squeezed the other man’s upper arm and gave a little tug to get him walking back the way they’d come. With the station over capacity due to all the refugees from Earth, they would be remaining in the barracks on the Sleipnir until further notice.

“So... you understand, then. What this is like.”

Deimos looked over at his navigator briefly, then flicked his eyes forward again. He didn’t understand. _Would need to have had some family in the first place to know what it’s like to lose them._ But it was almost always easier to just let Phobos assume whatever he wanted.

The weeks that followed were an unsettling combination of boring and surreal. For the most part they had to remain on the ship. But it was no longer just the crew hanging around the barracks. Due to the overcrowding on the station, civilians were assigned bunks that were no longer occupied. Seeing the rooms recently vacated by the deaths of their comrades filled with privileged citizens of Earth who had been able to access private transport off-world was jarring.

One of the most interesting developments had to be the release of the Commanders from the brig onboard. They were given a room on the station and told to vacate their quarters on the ship. De facto command of the _Sleipnir_ remained with Keeler and Encke for the time being.

Nobody in the upper ranks of the Alliance seemed interested in persecuting the mutineers, despite Cook’s continued protests. The Earth had just been blown to smithereens and most of its population had been slaughtered. Nobody had time to bother with court martials and squabbling over what had occurred in the aftermath of what had ultimately been a fairly inconsequential battle. The war was over and they’d lost.

Now it was time to put everything else behind them and pick up the pieces.

Most of the _Sleipnir_ ’s crew were kept in service for a while longer, once they’d been given a short period of “shore leave” which really amounted to having more free time on board the ship or the station. Deimos didn’t much care where he spent his leave as long as he was still getting paid, but dealing with Phobos’ whining about it did try his patience at times. With transports running constantly just to deal with the overflowing civilian refugee population stranded in the Starbase, enlisted Alliance soldiers were not authorized to travel to Mars. Unless they had a particularly good reason, or connections. A few of the navigators who still had family left slowly disappeared over the course of the shore leave. Mostly the sons of politicians and the ultra-wealthy who had managed to get off-world in time. They were the only ones who really got to spend any of it _actually_ ashore.

The vast majority, though, remained living in their shared rooms. Eventually they returned to active duty under Keeler and Encke, the tribunal for the mutiny having been indefinitely postponed. Deimos found himself _under_ the acting Commanders on few more occasions, but each time they seemed more and more stressed. He wasn’t surprised when a few weeks passed without anything more than a perfunctory nod from Encke during training.

It wasn’t that much longer before Alliance Command took the official position that the Colteron threat was truly gone and they could discharge “unnecessary” forces. Which ended up including him and Phobos, because they’d never done well enough in the rankings. Their improvement since the journey back—working together more effectively than they ever had before—didn’t matter. They were still shown the door; given 24 hours to pack and arrange transport to the colonies, where most civilians had by now settled.

The morning following their discharge orders, Phobos trailed close behind him to the transport docks. “So, uh, which colony are you heading to?”

Pulling up the ticket he’d purchased last night on the screen of his tablet, Deimos felt his navigator looming over his shoulder.

“How do you even pronounce that?” asked Phobos, scrunching up his face while looking at the Russian name of his home city. “Whatever! Wait up while I go get one, too.”

“You don’t want to go there,” Deimos tried to object.

“Well I haven’t got anywhere else to go, now do I?” asked Phobos, bitterness tinging his voice. “At least, not with anyone.”

Deimos pointed out one of the larger, wealthier, more developed colonies listed on the display at the ticket terminal. He knew many of the refugees were already settling there, from what he’d heard discussed among the fighters. Some were accompanying their navigators to their new homes, though most were returning to where they’d lived before enlisting. A few he’d listened to had grand ideas of starting fresh somewhere new now that they had some cash, a good service record, and an honourable discharge to recommend them. _Not that any of those will matter, competing against Earthborns for too few jobs in popular urban areas,_ he’d thought to himself.

“Nah, sounds stupid. I bet that’s where Abel is going to live.”

Repressing a sigh, he watched as his navigator completed the transaction and looked to him to lead the way. As the skinny blond man followed him like a stray dog, he felt some stirring of responsibility beneath his ribs, lodging there uncomfortably.

 _I can’t just leave him._ He’d been assigned to Phobos; to protect him, defend him, work with him. Now it looked like it was his turn to navigate for the both of them, too.

“Wait!”

The sudden, unexpected exclamation shook Deimos from his thoughts.

“ _Please_ tell me you lived in an actual city. I don’t think I could take having to move to a shithole like Mars if it also meant being stuck in a village of a few dozen people. Or worse yet, a farming compound,” Phobos said with a shudder. “Just throw me out the airlock now if that’s the case! It would be a mercy.”

He considered taking Phobos up on the extremely tempting offer, regardless of the facts of the situation. After a moment of fantasizing and watching his navigator sweat, he gave a small nod of confirmation.

“Oh thank god! You really didn’t seem like the strapping farmhand type, but I have no idea what it’s like out there...”

Deimos cocked his head to one side, eyeing the other man with a questioning gaze.

“No, I’ve never been to Mars before. Come _on_ , Deimos, don’t be stupid! What reason would I possibly have to go there until now?”

 _Tourism, curiosity, business, education, cultural exchange,_ he thought, almost laughing when that one popped into his head. _Because it was there… something to do with all the money you probably had…_ He’d always been under the impression that lots of people from Earth—at least the ones with the social standing of most navigators, if not the lowly maintenance crew members not from Mars—came to the colonies at least once on school trips or with family. To see the major sights; ancient rover landing spots, mountains, the largest and richest of the bubble-encased cities, stuff like that.

With a shrug, he continued walking in the direction they’d been headed before stopping to cover this apparently very important topic. He could see their shuttle preparing to board at the other end of the docking bay.

_Well, at least with nothing to compare to, he’ll be a little less disappointed when we arrive._

The mid-sized industrial town he’d grown up in was rough and completely lacking in any glamour the larger settlements gained from an influx of tourist money and regular business travel. But it was a far sight more populous than a farming compound or one of the small mining villages. And who knew? With some of the refugees almost certain to make their homes in every city, even the smaller ones, it might start to change in the next few years.

He almost jumped at the sensation of fingers slipping into the hand he wasn’t using to hold his ticket at the ready.

Looking over at his navigator, he saw a picture of determination, but Deimos could feel the shaking of the hand in his own. He gave it a squeeze, and got a death grip in return. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch up where it was hidden behind the fall of his hair.

 _Typical Phobos_.

“Come on,” he rasped, stepping into the boarding line, dragging the other man with him.

They may have had their many differences, but they’d also turned out to be compatible in at least a few ways. Now it was time to see if they’d still make a good team back on solid ground. A few months ago he might have dreaded the prospect.

But now, much to his surprise, Deimos found he was looking forward to finding out.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Come tell me your Deimos & Phobos post-war headcanons over on [tumblr](https://goodyeartheshippycat.tumblr.com/), because I'm still hanging around there.


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